


Come Home

by bactaqueen



Series: AFI ABH [4]
Category: AFI
Genre: F/M, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2287052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After nine years, you finally have time to be together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is entirely coincidental.
> 
> Author's Note: Originally posted July 2005.

Pink-gray dawn brightens the room, and you breathe a sigh of understated relief as the night's ominous shadows shift into nothing. The window seat, the armoire, the dresser, and the mirror regain shape, solidifying into the everyday harmless. The bathroom door ceases swinging on its squeaking hinges, and then the silence of the room is broken only by his soft snoring.  
  
Finally, after the long night, your body relaxes. You turn your head, your long hair bunching on the pillow, your eyes moving over him. His body is twisted away, but his face is turned toward you, hair straggling across his strong face, breaking the expression of peace and innocence. Carefully, you shift to lay on your side, tucking your hand under your head, reaching out with the other. You brush his hair from his face and smile when he turns into your touch. But that old familiar ache takes you, and you pull your hand from his stubbly cheek.  
  
For the first time in nine years, he slept the sleep of the innocent and carefree. At the end of his night were no itineraries, no obligations, no demands for creative output, no friends, no fans. Only you. That is what calls the ache, because it is never "only" you, and your heart remembers this. This is the first time you've ever woken next to him knowing that he isn't going to leave you.  
  
You have long since perfected the ability to leave him undisturbed, even in the worst of beds. This one certainly isn't the best. When you move away, it creaks and jumps; he only groans softly and shifts closer to the warm place between the lavender sheets that you vacated. Your bare feet touch the smooth wood floor, and the cold air nips at your skin. Gooseflesh ripples along your arms, and your nipples peak beneath the pastel cotton of your shirt. You curl your toes against the floor and stretch your arms over your head. Through the blinds of the window before you, you can make out the misty farmland a story below. A shudder runs through you at the first vivid memory of this place.  
  
"Night of the Living Dead," you said, half-kidding to hide your fears.  
  
He gave you that sweet smile and tugged you along by the wrist. "I won't let the zombies get you."  
  
As if he'd ever protected you from anything.  
  
But you followed, anyway, as you always have and you always will. You're willing to face your fears of the unknown for unprecedented time alone with him.  
  
You pad from the bed to the dresser below the big mirror. The years have been good to you, but better to him. You smile briefly at yourself as you open the top drawer and fish out fresh panties and a clean pale-green top. He put your things away, and let you have the top drawer; you teased that it was only so he could bend over and wiggle that perfect ass at you, and he only laughed. You don't mind. As you slide the drawer shut with your hip, you think that he can wiggle that ass for you whenever he wants.  
  
The bathroom is warmer than the bedroom, barely. You make sure the door is shut before you deposit your fresh clothes on the edge of the sink on the way to the antique clawfoot tub. It will take some time for the water to warm. As the sound of water beating against plastic and porcelain fills the small room, you turn to the big mirror over the vanity. Your eyes scrutinize your body as you undress, leaving the flimsy top and flimsier panties near the base of the sink pedestal. Your hands touch your shoulders, cup your breasts, smooth down your belly, and plant on your hips. You turn this way and that, eying your reflection, before a satisfied smile curves your lips. Not bad at all.  
  
Steam curls in the air and you refuse to think of the misty tendrils as ghost-like. In the shower, the hot water stings your skin and reddens it before droplets bounce off and fleck the clear curtain. You close your eyes and tip your face up to the spray, running your fingers through through your hair to work out the tangles. He brushed your hair last night, just before bed, and you think longingly of his kisses on the back of your neck and his fingertips massaging your scalp as he worked. It isn't until your fingers soap your inner thighs and twitch to stray up that you jolt and recognize that full anticipation for what it is: you're horny. You're always horny, really; it's like a dull permanent ache inside you. You're so used to wanting him and almost never having him that your body has grown desensitized to its needs.  
  
Something is different this time, though. You stand beneath the spray and stare down at yourself, at the curl wrapped around your finger, and you struggle through the unfamiliar feeling. Something is different. And then it dawns on you, subtle but surprising: he isn't gone. While you are alone, naked, and wet in this shower, he is alone and naked between the sheets, below the ragged quilt, close to waking. He has no defenses. And more importantly, he has no chance to cultivate any, since that would defeat the purpose of this escape.   
  
Resolutely, you shut off the water. Memory insists you hurry--he could be gone by the time you're dry. But you know he won't be. So you wrap yourself in one of the enormous towels, and you step out of the shower. Your hair soaks the back of your towel to your hips, and beads of water slide down your legs. With another towel, you twist your hair up, turban-style. It will keep until you've dried off.  
  
Panic tries to rise in you as you brush your teeth before the foggy mirror, but you force it down. Fear--the fear of only a warm impression in the bed being all that remains--tries to seize you. But he promised. He never breaks his promises to you.  
  
Once you're dry, you slide the panties up your legs and pull the new tank top over your head. Your hair is a damp, tangled mess, but you view it as a test in patience. This ritual is comfort; you need some psychological defense against the inevitable when his lips will touch yours and he'll whisper goodbye. You're not willing to give this comfort up, not even for a sure thing.  
  
When your hair is to your satisfaction, you leave the bathroom. The bedroom is brighter now. He is in the center of the bed, one arm flung across the pillow you used, one over his eyes. His lips are parted and damp in sleep. The line of his jaw and the point of his chin are exquisite. A soft sigh leaves your lips, and your gaze moves down. The room is warmer, though there is still a chill, and he kicked the quilt to the foot of the bed. Only the sheet covers him to mid-stomach, and as you watch, he shifts and displaces it. More of his body is visible, and what isn't is easily imagined. This body is one you've loved and watched change as he grew, one he uses so effectively and cares for so studiously. This body is one he has shown to millions... and shared only with you.  
  
The bed shifts beneath your knees, and the sheet slides over him as you pull it away. His cock, once a hardening shape beneath the sheet, twitches, suddenly exposed. As you watch, it loses length and size in the sudden chill. You almost smile before slithering between his legs and stretching a little, cupping your hands around it and breathing warmly and moistly over it. You hold it as it grows, watch the blood infuse the delicate tissue and harden, watch the veins begin to pulse. He stirs. You let your fingers dance over his hips and thighs, and you finger the growing curls, pleased he stopped shaving just for you.  
  
When the head quivers near your warm lips, you kiss it softly. His quiet gasp may be a sleep whimper. You part your lips and lower your head, taking him in centimeter by agonizing centimeter. He's thick and hot, perfectly fitted to your mouth. You can't remember having done this for him like this; you can't even remember the last time you did this for him. Too long.  
  
Your eyes slip shut. You take him in as far as you can, until his tip hits the back of your throat. You fight your gag reflex and work him in just a little more. Despair flares briefly inside you. After so many years, you should be able to take him. But it quells as he shifts beneath you, and his fingers touch your hair. You suck him, slow and unhurried, reveling in this chance, in the heady scent of sleep-warm skin and musk, and the salty taste of him. You tease the root of his cock and his balls with your fingers, and when he pushes your hair back from your face, you open your eyes to look up at him.  
  
His unlined eyes are wide, sleepy, and so dark. His lips are damp and his tongue keeps flicking to wet them. He has pushed himself up on his elbows to watch you, but he seems still half-asleep. He proves to have wits about him when he says your name.  
  
Unsure of how long it has been since he last came, your hand goes to his hip, to hold him down and control the violence of his body in the throes of orgasm, as you wrap fingers around the length of cock you can't take in and increase the suction and pace of your pulls. Your fears go unrealized. He continues to stroke fingers through your hair as he breathes your name into the room. When he comes, hot and salty, flooding your mouth. Greedily, you swallow it all down; this is part of him, and you never get enough.  
  
His legs and hips shift; he slides his hands under your arms and pulls you up. He settles you atop him, wrapping his strong arms around you and holding you to his chest. Your head is tucked under his chin, and you are acutely aware of every inch of your bodies pressed together.  
  
When he speaks, his voice rumbles up from his chest. "Best wake-up call I've ever had."  
  
You smile against his skin. "I wanted you to sleep," you tell him, and kiss his collarbone. "But I just wanted you more."  
  
His fingers comb through your hair. "Did you already shower?"  
  
He smells like warm skin, old makeup, and aftershave. "Yeah."  
  
Fingers slide around your neck. "Oh." There's a hint of sadness in his voice.  
  
You turn your head and nuzzle his neck, letting the night-grown stubble of his jaw scratch your nose. "I'm not going to kiss you until you brush your teeth," you say. "I really want to kiss you."  
  
A smile changes his face and he says, "I guess I'll go brush my teeth, then." He lifts his head and kisses the crown of your head. Then he's easing you to the bed and standing. He touches the back of your hand as he smiles down at you. "Thank you."  
  
Your fingertips graze his thigh. You stare up the length of his body. You smile a little, still touched that he sincerely appreciates your efforts at pleasing him. And you realize that you like looking up at him. "You're welcome."  
  
His little smile never fades. He turns and pads across the room, and you watch his naked ass disappear into the bathroom. He closes the door, but doesn't let it shut completely. He never does. Your cue comes with the sound of the shower. You have been invited to join his morning ritual. But you decline.  
  
Instead, you roll to your stomach and hug the pillow he used. You stare at the Tiffany lamp and you smile to yourself, imagining him in there, wet and naked, washing his smooth pale self. His hair is all around him, black and plastered to his head, neck, and shoulders. Maybe soap slides along the curve of his triceps, or along the outside of his thigh. Maybe he's in there thinking about you out here, and maybe he's half-hard again already.  
  
Sunlight streams through the blinds. The shower goes off just as the yellow light touches your skin. You're half-dozing, eyelids drooping, thinking about him in the shower, thinking of what you'd like to be doing in the shower with him. The door opens quietly, but you don't hear the pad of his bare feet across the floor. It is only when the bed shifts under his weight and his bare thighs are ghost touches on your hips that you're aware of him with any certainty.  
  
Slowly, he lowers himself. His knees ease back and his thighs frame yours. You feel the press of his cock on your ass and the smooth planes of his belly and chest on your back. His hair brushes your skin. He kisses the back of your neck and your shoulders as his hands move up and down your sides.  
  
"Did you sleep at all last night?" he asks quietly, the low rumble of amusement in his voice.  
  
"Some," you admit.  
  
He sighs, and the feel of his warm breath flowing over your skin is delicious. He teases, "The zombies aren't going to get you."  
  
You can smell his aftershave, and that scent prompts you to retort with, "And you'd be just as pretty with a five o'clock shadow."  
  
Light laughter bubbles out of his mouth. "You're all tense."  
  
"Scared does that to a person."   
  
He makes a thoughtful sound and arches his body off yours. "Do you want a massage?"  
  
A happy sigh escapes your lips and you wiggle beneath him. "Yes."  
  
He spreads those long fingers at the small of your back and pushes up on your tank top. "Off," he insists.  
  
Squirming, you help him remove the shirt. It occurs to you, briefly, that he is stripping away your defenses, but you refuse to dwell on that.  
  
His fingers sweep your hair to the side, exposing your neck and your back, and he moves until his weight is on your knees. Fingers press into your lower back and he begins, thumbs at your spine and fingertips at your sides. He kneads up your back, using palms and fingers alternately, and shifts his weight as he moves up. When you arch your back just a little, you feel the length of his half-hard cock against your cotton-covered ass, right on the cleft, and when he moves forward just a bit, his damp tip presses against the small of your back.  
  
With a sigh, you wiggle again, lifting your hips off the bed and pushing your hands beneath you, hooking thumbs into the elastic of your panties.  
  
Immediately, he's up on his knees. "Am I crushing you?"  
  
"Nope." You get the panties down past your hips. "I want these off."  
  
Chuckling softly, he slips to the bed beside you. His hands cover your hips and his fingertips slide beneath the band. He makes slow work of the cotton, sliding them down and taking the opportunity to smooth his palms along your legs as he goes. He wraps fingers around each ankle in turn to lift, and the soft sound of rushing air lets you know that he discards them on the floor. You expect him to straddle you again, so the lips pressed to the heel of your foot come as a surprise.  
  
He parts your legs and spreads his hands up your calves. He kisses the ball of each foot and each heel before the bed shifts again, and his knees are between your ankles. His thumbs make invisible lines on the backs of your legs, and his hair tickles your skin as he places kisses at the back of each knee. You can't help squirming a little when he eases your thighs further apart and strokes his fingertips up and down the insides.  
  
When you arch your back and lift your hips just a little, you hear his breath catch. His fingertips graze your outer lips and come away wet. He cups your ass, one hand on each cheek, then presses his palms to the small of your back. He splays fingers over your back and moves them up, not massaging this time, just feeling. His fingertips touch the sides of your breasts. He kisses the back of your neck and then your ear.  
  
"You're beautiful," he breathes.  
  
Briefly, you close your eyes. You always believed him when he said it. You close your legs, and when he straddles you once more, you roll to face him.  
  
Thumbs glide along your eyebrows. He runs the tip of one finger down your nose, then smooths two along your cheekbones. He edges your lower lip, then kisses you softly, closed-mouthed, eyes open. He traces your jaw, lets his fingers meet at your chin, then moves them down your throat. He shifts up on his knees as his hands continue over your collarbones and shoulders. He cups your breasts and your fingers go to his hair as he presses a reverent sucking kiss to each nipple. But he doesn't waste time. He licks a wet stripe down the center of your belly, thrusting his tongue into your navel. His lipring clinks softly against the barbell through your skin. You listen to his breathing speed up and let him spread your legs wide. He settles in and raises his eyes to meet yours.  
  
Your fingers dance along the edge of his jaw and touch his lips. He kisses your fingertips, rounds into your palm briefly, then lowers his head. One hand is under your ass for support if you need it. He strokes the other set of fingertips over your outer lips, teasing you. It is enough to tighten your belly, send blood rushing to your cunt. Lightly, maddeningly, he lets just the very tips of two fingers graze along the inside edges before spreading you open. You watch his eyes take you in, but drop your head back when he strokes a finger over your neglected clit, then moves down and strokes your inner lips, circling the hot center.  
  
He kisses your hips, your thighs. His hair brushes your skin. You want to focus on that, on anything but the excruciating tease of his fingertips delving into you, but you're distracted by the rough heat of his tongue. You gasp; maybe you should think of how long it's been, but you can't. He flutters the tip just inside you, then laves its soft form up, over your inner lips and pressing against your hard little clit. He releases his hold on your labia, laps at your outer lips, slides his tongue up and down the cleft before pushing it in. You tip your hips and give a throaty moan. He can be such a fucking tease.  
  
Lips seal around you briefly, and he sucks gently. Then his fingers are back, and he slides two of those long digits deep inside you. His thumb flicks your clit. You push your head back into the pillow and tangle one hand in his hair as the other twists the sheet. A few slow pumps of those fingers, and he's licking you again, pushing his tongue in, easing it out; finally, he begins in earnest, licking, sucking, sealing, flicking his tongue against your clit.  
  
The first wave that takes you is slow and powerful. You rock your hips and whisper his name. If you didn't know him so well, you'd expect him to stop. But he doesn't, and you knew he wouldn't. His hands grip your thighs. His tongue is more aggressive, thrusting faster and harder. He uses his teeth--gently, but in your hypersensitive state, it doesn't feel gentle. Your clit isn't sacred, and he devotes a full minute to teasing just it, licking and sucking hard. The heavy, ragged breathing that fills the room belongs to both of you. The second wave that takes you is decidedly more violent; you grind up onto his face, use your fingers in his hair to guide him. Your chants of his name are decidedly louder. And when you can't take his enthusiasm any more, you yank on his hair, pulling him up.  
  
The weight of his body presses you into the mattress. You loop your arms around him and kiss him hard, licking at his lips, then at his chin. His mouth is open, wet, hot; repeatedly, obsessively, he pushes your hair back from your face. He bites your lips and rocks his hips against you. The wet head of his cock rocks against your clit. Your soft moan is apparently all the encouragement he needs.  
  
He shifts, rolls, and suddenly, you're on top. You look down to see his dark eyes open so wide, to see his hair spilled across the pillows, to see his chest heaving. His hands grip your hips, push you back. You lick his lips, his chin; a little thrill goes through you at the stubble that scrapes your tongue. His tongue meets yours, and then you're lifted.  
  
In one move, he pulls you down and slams up; the full length of his hard cock is buried inside you. It's been so long--you're so tight it hurts, but it's the best kind of pain. You kiss him one last time and rear up. Your hands go to his chest, curl against his skin, flank the flaming heart. The gift he has given you is control, though it's as much for him as it is for you.  
  
You ride him. Each rock of your hips, each lift of your body, each twist, each squeeze of your inner muscles on his cock send you both closer to the edge. He doesn't just take this. His hips work beneath yours. It's a grind of pelvic bones, your clit decimated in the process. You tighten around him with a surprised half-cry as your orgasm rips through you. Half a beat later, his nails rake down your back, and he calls your name, shooting so deep that you feel it in your womb.  
  
Tired, drained, you slump against him. You find the energy to kiss his lips and push black locks away from his sweaty face. His arms come around you. You shift your hips, and both of you hiss as his softening cock slips from inside you. His breath is hot on your ear when he murmurs those familiar words of love, but you shiver as the chill of the room sets in. He removes an arm from you and pulls the blanket over you.  
  
You nuzzle against his neck and kiss his skin one last time. You think of the scary house, and the way it protects you from the world. You think of his arms protecting you from the house. But for the first time, nothing protects you from each other.  


End file.
